Rebellious Rakes: Rake Most Likely to Rebel. Bronwyn Scott

said his name?

      She had not told him her name until the end and she had done so penitently, knowing full well it would mean something to them both. And it had. She’d fled into the night, not waiting to hear his response, and he’d fled to the dark privacy of his rooms to mull that response over.

      ‘I hope she isn’t his wife,’ Haviland said quietly. It would ruin everything. He’d have to leave the salle, have to forfeit instruction with Antoine just when he’d begun lessons with the master. He’d have to start over, one of his precious months of freedom now wasted. But most of all, he hoped she wasn’t Leodegrance’s wife because he wanted to see her again, wanted to kiss her again, wanted to feel what he’d felt this evening in the garden again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt such initial, intense attraction before, hadn’t ever felt such overwhelming fire course through him at a woman’s touch. It was exquisite and quite obviously addictive.

      ‘Because you are my friend, I hope so too,’ Archer replied, rising from his chair. ‘But be careful. A woman like that knows her way around a man. That makes her dangerous to a man like you who has so much to protect.’

      A title, a family, a reputation, a fortune—Haviland knew all too well the things he had to protect. What he wouldn’t give to forget all that for a while and simply be a man. He’d thought tonight, with her in the garden, perhaps such forgetfulness might be possible. But that was before he’d known her name. Now, his hopes hung in the balance of a kiss and its motives. Why had she done it? Why had she kissed him? For passion or for a plan?

       Chapter Six

      ‘You did what?’ Antoine’s disbelief radiated in all possible ways, in his tone, in the look on his face, even in the sloshing of his tea when he set it down too forcefully as her confession spilled out over breakfast.

      ‘I kissed him,’ Alyssandra repeated firmly, meeting her brother’s eyes. She would not look away as if she was embarrassed by what she’d done. She was twenty-eight and well past the age of needing permission for her actions. If she could successfully masquerade as a fencing master, she was certainly capable of deciding who she was going to kiss. Her brother’s attitude of indignation sat poorly with her this morning. She was not a child or even a naive girl out of her league with men like Haviland North. Alyssandra buttered a piece of bread with unnecessary fierceness. ‘It was just a kiss, Antoine.’ Had he forgotten she’d once been highly sought after before their fortunes had changed?

      ‘Why? This is not what we’d talked about. You were supposed to talk to him, not kiss him.’ Antoine fought to keep his voice from rising. ‘It’s not just a kiss! Who knows what he’ll be thinking now.’

      ‘It hardly matters what he thinks. He’ll only be here long enough for you to make some money on him and that’s all that matters to you and Julian,’ Alyssandra shot back uncharitably. How dare he ask her to play this double masquerade and then question her execution of it.

      ‘Yes, plenty of money; money from lessons, money from the tournament when I wager on him. Money for the salle when people see the kind of fencer we can turn out. That money keeps you in this fine house, keeps you in gowns like the one you wore last night,’ Antoine retorted sharply.

      She supposed she deserved that. It was an unfair shot on her part. Money always made Antoine prickly. He was acutely aware of the limits of his ability to provide for them. There was always enough, but just enough. She bit her tongue against the temptation to remind him just how much of that money she helped earn. He would not appreciate it and she already had one black mark against her this morning.

      ‘Since he truly is only here a short while there’s really no harm in it, is there?’ Alyssandra soothed. She sensed there was something else bothering him. She felt terrible. Guilt niggled at her for causing her brother angst. She wanted to believe there was no harm in last night’s kiss, that she could indulge herself just a little. At times she felt that she had become a recluse, too, along with Antoine.

      Before his accident, she used to go out to all nature of entertainments. She used to dance, ride in the parks and the woods outside town, shop with her friends—many of whom had long since married and had children. Now, she seldom went out at all. When she did it was only in the evenings after the work at the salle was done.

      At first, she’d stayed in because she felt guilty about dancing and riding when Antoine, who’d loved those activities, could no longer do them. They’d been things the two of them had done together and it seemed disloyal to her twin to enjoy them without him. In the early days after his accident, there had been nursing to occupy her. Then, there simply hadn’t been time. Antoine had needed her at the salle and at home. Any attempts at maintaining her old social life had eventually faded, replaced by other needs.

      ‘We have to be careful,’ Antoine said. ‘A conversation is one thing, but a kiss might have him sniffing around even more than he would have otherwise and that’s hardly solving the problem.’

      Alyssandra knew too well how fragile their masquerade was, how lucky they were it had lasted this long and how little it would take to see it all undone. Everything was done covertly. They kept only the most loyal of staff. No one could see Antoine leaving the house or entering the salle, carried by his manservant. No one could come to the house. Antoine conducted all his business in writing or at the salle where he had Julian and her to act as his legs.

      She understood maintaining the ruse was a great sacrifice on Antoine’s part, too. If he allowed everyone to know his injury was lingering, he could go about publicly in his chair, or with his manservant. He could attend musicales and plays, the opera, picnics even. But to do so would mean the end of the salle and the end of their income. Ironically, without income and means there would be no social invitations to such events. They would be nothing more than the impoverished children of a dead vicomte. It was not a bargain Antoine could afford to make. So in exchange for social security, Antoine had fashioned a secretive, reclusive life for himself—a life that consisted of his family home, the elegant Hôtel Leodegrance in the sixth arondissement, his father’s salle and his sister’s well-being; three things only after a life that had been full of so much more.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ Alyssandra bowed her head. She had been selfish last night. She should not have kissed Haviland North. She should have resisted the temptation to seize a little pleasure for herself when Antoine could seize none. All the choices he had made had been for her, for them. She should do the same. They were all each other had left. Perhaps that was what was worrying him this morning—a fear of losing her.

      The very thought of having caused him such pain when he already had so much to bear made her chest tight. She’d not thought in those terms last night—indeed, she’d hardly thought at all in Haviland’s arms. She rose and went to Antoine, kneeling at his side and taking his hands in hers, tears in her eyes. ‘I will not leave you. I promise. You mustn’t worry about that, never again.’

      Antoine placed a hand on her head. ‘I know it’s hard and I know it’s unfair to ask you to stay,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what it costs you. You could be out dancing every night. What would become of me without you? I am afraid I’m too scared to find out, but perhaps I won’t always be. Maybe some day I’ll find the courage to let you go.’

      She shook her head in denial. ‘You must never worry. You are my brother—’ Hurried footsteps interrupted her. The butler stepped into the room. She rose and smoothed her skirts. ‘What is it, Renaud?’

      The butler drew himself up, trying with great effort not to look disturbed. ‘There is a gentleman downstairs. He is asking to see you. He has given me his card.’ The butler handed it to her, hiding a very French sneer of disdain. ‘He’s English.’

      Her initial reaction was one of relief. No one was asking to see Antoine. People had stopped asking to see Antoine years ago at home. The story about facial scars had worked well in keeping people away. But the sight of the name on the